


Sick Days

by StuckWithMe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-09
Updated: 2014-03-09
Packaged: 2018-01-15 05:00:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1292311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StuckWithMe/pseuds/StuckWithMe





	Sick Days

John sighed when a cry sounded from the living room almost making him spill the boiling hot soup down his front. The short man rolled his eyes at his flat mate’s impatience before sorting the soup and his own mug of tea onto a tray and carrying it to the living room.

"Would you stop it, Sherlock?" John snapped, feeling his own patience wearing thin. Sherlock looked up at his friend from his spot on the sofa with a pout on his face, he wrapped the thick blanket around his skinny body and pursed his lips, staying quiet at John’s request. "Thank you," mumbled John, holding back the surprise he felt at the fact that Sherlock had actually listened to him. With a smug smile on his lips, John took a seat in his chair - which had been moved closer to the sofa at Sherlock’s request - and handed the hot bowl of soup to the ill man. "Here’s your soup," John smiled softly at Sherlock, placing a hand on his head, checking his temperature.

"I don’t want soup," Sherlock replied sharply, shaking his head to move John’s hand, the tall man winced at the pain, realizing that moving so quickly with such a headache wasn’t a good idea.

"You wanted soup earlier!" John exclaimed, feeling annoyed. Sherlock had requested he go out, buy him some soup and heat it for him, claiming that John had to do all of this because Sherlock was ill and he must take care of him. John glanced down at Sherlock, who was now facing the wall, and shook his head. "You sent me out earlier for this bloody stuff, you screamed and shouted that you needed it and now you don’t want it?" John asked in disbelief, though by the lack of a reply on Sherlock’s behalf it seemed he was talking to himself.

Sherlock thought of replying, of course he did, how could he not? He was Sherlock Holmes, he always had to have the last word! And, of course, he longed to constantly hear the sound of John’s voice even if it was when he was calling him a dick or telling him how it wasn’t okay to completely disregard peoples feelings, he just liked to hear him speak. Sherlock had decided that maybe, this one time, it was best for him to stay silent that come up with some ‘smart arse’ reply, as John would put it, so he lay In silence with his back to John.

He wiped his already bright red nose with a tissue and silently cursed this cold - there were so many outstanding cases out there waiting to be solved and where was the great Sherlock Holmes? Wrapped up in a blanket on his sofa feeling like death warmed up. Sherlock could hear John behind him, sipping his tea and flipping through a newspaper somewhat angrily. It made Sherlock smile that John hadn’t moved his chair away, he was still right beside him.

For what seemed like a lifetime, both men stayed in complete silence, neither saying a word, the only sounds to be heard were Sherlock’s sneezes and sniffles from time to time or the muffled speech coming from Mrs Hudson’s television down stairs. After a while a heavy, agitated sigh escaped John’s lips.

"Sherlock, you’ve got to eat something," John demanded, standing up and placing his hands on Sherlock’s sides, a well needed smile graced the taller man’s lips at the touch of his friend and he rolled over in order to face him. John, for the second time today, was surprised with Sherlock’s cooperation, normally he was as stubborn as could be but today it seemed he had given that up. "You need to eat it, Sherlock, or you could dehydrate and you know that," John told him, avoiding looking at the pout that had settled on Sherlock’s thin lips. "Please," by now John was practically begging, usually he wouldn’t go that far but it was for the safety of his friend (and a little bit to be able to say that he’d beat Sherlock Holmes in an argument.)

"But I don’t want the soup," Sherlock insisted, pushing it away when John offered it to him. Why couldn’t John see that all Sherlock needed to get better was him? Couldn’t he tell? Sherlock hated how people weren’t as observant as he was, it exhausted him to have to tell them things rather than wait for them to figure it out themselves. Sherlock jumped slightly when John slammed the china bowl onto the coffee table.

"You are impossible!" John bellowed.

"I’m clearly not, that would imply that I couldn’t exist, yet here I am," Sherlock commented while John continued to shout, throwing his arms up as he stormed around the room, rambling on about how pig headed Sherlock was. Sherlock’s patience began wearing thin and with what little energy he had he pushed himself into a sitting position and shouted, "I don’t want the soup, John, I just want you," both men stopped dead, John out of shock of what he had heard and Sherlock out of pure self loathing. How could he have let himself say that? It was love, a human error, something he wasn’t capable of.

John leaned against the fireplace with his head in his hands, he looked up at Sherlock, scratching the back of his neck nervously, he couldn’t bring himself to speak, there had been times that John had thought about Sherlock in a way that implied they were more than friends but those were just silly thoughts, nothing serious, he had said it before and he’d say it again, John Watson was not gay!

"You uh, you what?" John stuttered with an awkward, humourless laugh, he titled his head to the side and watched Sherlock who seemed to be frozen in his seat, still with that blanket hung loosely around his bony shoulders. "Answer me, Sherlock," John demanded eliciting no reply from the dark haired man. "You uh, you said you want," John took a deep breath before he cleared his throat and continued, "you said you want me, Sherlock. What did you mean?" he asked, watching as a blush creep its way onto his flat mate’s paper white cheeks.

"I um, nothing," Sherlock muttered quickly, collapsing back down onto the sofa, pulling his legs up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them - the only way he could fully fit on this sofa. He moved so he had his back to John and the rest of the world. Sherlock buried his head in the blankets, allowing his dark curls to fall in front of his eyes, hiding him from his embarrassment.

Usually, Sherlock adored silence, it allowed him time to think and concentrate but all he wanted in the very moment was for someone to say anything, it didn’t even have to be John, it could be Mrs Hudson rushing upstairs to tell them about which of the Loose Women wore what today or Lestrade with a new case, he’d even be alright with Mycroft bursting in, just some sort of noise. Unfortunately for Sherlock, things stayed silent. His breathing slowed when he felt a weight behind him on the sofa and breathing on his neck, John slid his arm under Sherlock’s blanket and around his waist, pulling his best friend closer, Sherlock turned around with a small smile on his face and buried his aching head in John’s chest.

"Is this what you meant?" John asked in a whisper, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s head, he nodded his silent reply and returned the kiss but placing it on John’s neck.

"Exactly this."


End file.
